Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/85

 OME now," I said, "put off these webs of death, Distract this leaden yearning of thine eyes From lichened banks of peace, sad mysteries Of dust fallen-in where passed the flitting breath: Turn thy sick thoughts from him that slumbereth In mouldered linen to the living skies, The sun's bright-clouded principalities, The salt deliciousness the sea-breeze hath!

Lay thy warm hand on earth's cold clods and think What exquisite greenness sprouts from these to grace The moving fields of summer; on the brink Of arched waves the sea-horizon trace, Whence wheels night's galaxy; and in silence sink The pride in rapture of life's dwelling-place!"